Raa

"Life is not a spectators game, but I am a spectator none the less. I was handed these seats, I am not to partake, and that is my life and my fate."

---

Abaddon visits with a new bunch of hatchlings from time to time. Eager small beings, they run amok in his cave, scattering books, parchments and nicknacks from other worlds as they go. She used to apologize for it, but now it's more of a guarantee.

A small tundra, smaller than most of the books he's inherited, peers at him very closely.
"Why don't you 'ave a 'alo?"
"An Alo?" Raa asks.
"A halo," Abaddon corrects with her back to them both, as she calmly pulls a mirror puppet from the mouth of the tundra's sibling. "He's very interested in the Halos some of our clan members carry."
"Oh," says Raa. "I'm not blessed, it's not natural for me to wear one."

"Look like a light tha' should 'ave one," says the child. He's looking at him almost accusingly, as if he's ruined a very plausible theory.
"I'm sure there are rules to get such things," Raa answers, not fully aware what to say to a child about holy attributes.
Abaddon carries a sibling tundra under her arm seems to intervene. "Not every yellow dragon you see have a shining light around them," she says calmly.
"but 'e got many eyes!" The hatchling proclaims.

"I'm just a storyteller," Raa shifts a bit uncomfortably.
"That he is!" Abaddon claps her tail into the earth, the bang resonating through the cave, and gains the attention of the other hatchlings that were previously occupied.
"So tell us a story," she smiles, and all the little dragons clamber out of their pots, items and parchment to find a comfortable place to sit.

Raa draws a breath, and the hatchlings gather around him like moth to flame.

---

"This is a story," he begins. "About the deity of Wind, and the deity of Light. And what became the hottest day of the year."

"It begins as it ends, with harsh sun, and calm winds.
It's eerie quiet, because the deity of life has not risen just yet, and the watery lands of the tidelord lay far beyond reach. So far, in fact, that the lands and air is hot and dry.

In the mid after sunrise, the Windsinger and the Lightweaver communicate only by allowing faint traces of their element to rise and mingle in the sky, creating warmth and a pleasant afternoon. Dry though it is, the windsinger does his to blow the air across the sky, bringing with it dropplets of water from the Tidelord's ocean.
And so, children. It came a day when the Windsinger and the Lightweaver had an argument.
An argument so loud, that the other deities couldn't help but overhear, and snicker and gossip by themselves in small voices.

Their argument was this, that an unfair judgement was bestowed upon the deity of Wind. For he likes to play, sing and create marvelous crescendos of air and clouds where he lives. But Windsinger thought to himself, "my sister's life has too many rules. They live as the marble they create. Perhaps it is time I give them some of my children's joy."
And so, without asking or speaking of his good intentions, the Windsinger blew a frightful storm, right into the heart of the ancient tower.

The crumbling building, as you know if you've seen it, is not a sturdy place. It can barely stay with the heat of the sun, and is no place for a crescendo of the Windsingers magnitude.

The house and home of the Lightweaver crumbles and broke around her, her tiny children running amok as the building collapsed.
On the cliff it had resided, the powerful movement carried water from the sea, hitting the hillside repeatedly, causing more damage at top.
The middle turned into a powerful tornado, enough to overturn the surrounding village, making several of the dragons homeless.
The Lightweaver rose with rage, the sun shining more brightly than ever before, drying the water as it rose, leaving a cloud of mist as it ascended.

The Windsinger was not there to see it himself, but he felt quite pleased with his handywork, and sent over some of his children to see if the acolights were enjoying themselves.
What returned home to him was a flock of frighteful spirals, all carrying scrolls upon scrolls of damage worth.
As most written complaints go, the windsinger threw them into the crescendo like confetti, and read none.
But the message was recieved none the less.

"Frighteful Lamp!" Yelled the Windsinger across the skies.
"What in Sornieth' creation has you shining the sun so harshly into my eyes. I can barely see!"
A roar of indignation returned to him from the clouds, and the sun kept on brightly shining, making his skin itch and his throat dry.
"Have you no liking to fun?" He yelled back.
"Fun??" Came a righteous reply. "Come here and pick up your fun, you undignified excuse of a limp string!"
Shocked as he was of her rude reply, he flew across the skies, carrying with him the dust of the ground that had turned so dry.
Upon seeing her home, however, he made a huff and rolled his eyes.

Her tower and the buildings close by where mere specks and rocks on the ground, most of their foundation and roofs whirling around in an unpredictable piruette inside his tornado gift.
"Gives your heavy children a reason to practice flying does it not?" He boasted above the noise of crashing stone and screaming dragons.
"PUT THEM DOWN AT ONCE!" The Lightweaver yelled back, hastily trying to grab flying objects out of the wild air.

"Nothing but ungratefulness," the Windsinger mumbled to himself as he calmed the wind, rocks and the like falling to the earth with heavy thuds, creating craters and burying architecture.
He could barely see the silouette of her, as she was shining with righteous fury, and her eyes reflecting the sun in such a way that the deity of Wind was quite sure he'd get a sunburn if their eyes met.

"Keep all your tricks and shenanigans away from my land, or I might send a drought upon your little flying village."
The Windsinger huffed in offense, and turned away from her.
"Fine by me!" He yelled back.
"I can see where I'm not welcome. I'll just take my clouds and go."
And so the Windsinger blew the misty clouds across the sky, and away from the home of Light.
The air turned instantly dry and suffocating. And as the Lightmother shone on with left over indignation, her children struggled to rebuild the city in the burning heat of the sun.